


Wings

by Aristocratic_Otter



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Angst, M/M, Resolution, Science
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:41:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24641920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aristocratic_Otter/pseuds/Aristocratic_Otter
Summary: Simon may not have lost his magic after all.
Relationships: Penelope Bunce & Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 17
Kudos: 57





	Wings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WarriorBeeoftheSea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WarriorBeeoftheSea/gifts).



> To Bee: before I met you, I felt like I knew you because you put so much of yourself into your stories. I knew I’d like you, that I’d want to be your friend. And then I did meet you, and you were even more kind and welcoming then I could have predicted. You made me feel like I belonged, like I didn’t have to fight for a place. Thank you for that. This story is for you.
> 
> If, when you read this story, all parenthesis, quotation marks, periods and capitalizations are where they should be, that is all due to tbazzsnow (Artescapri)...she is amazing, and I am unendingly grateful for the beta help!

**Baz**

As I gaze out over the ramparts onto the familiar weathered stone of Watford’s campus, I absorb the apparent innocence of the school’s moonlit visage from here. One would hardly guess at the events that took place behind these walls just over a year ago. The shattered windows in the White Chapel have been repaired or replaced and nothing else, no scorch marks, or blood or scent of smoke in the air, hints at the tragedy that occured here, the night that created the invisible wounds in the psyche of Simon Snow.

Simon is with me here. Well, not _right_ here; he’s presumably snoring these hours away and drooling into his pillow in our old tower room in Mummer’s house, disgusting and beautiful as ever. But he is still with me, still my boyfriend, at least for now. I thought, for a moment, that he was going to break up with me, there on that beach in California. I’d be dumped in a foreign nation, with salt in my hair and sand in my trouser cuffs. Humiliating. But, as she had before, at the beginning of the whole American fiasco, Bunce threw us a lifeline, and Simon hasn’t tried to bring it up since. To be honest, I’ve been avoiding him a bit, to keep him from having the chance to continue that wretched conversation.

He and I (along with Bunce, Wellbelove and the American Normal, Shepard) are here, at Watford, at the request of the school’s headmistress. I worried that bringing Simon here would send him even deeper into his downward spiral, but, other than his refusal to go near the White Chapel, he has been remarkably stoic. But, if I’m avoiding him, he’s also not talking to me, or to any of us, at least not about anything of consequence. Simon Snow remains a closed book, despite everything we went through in America.

I sigh and lean into the stone, folding my arms on the wall and resting my chin in my hands. The moat is dull in the low light and (thankfully) absent of any living inhabitants these days (cursed mer-wolves...I wonder what the headmistress did with them? Hopefully something gruesome). The drawbridge is up, as we promised to keep it, when we accepted our task from Penelope’s mother. Beyond the walls, I can only see shadows of the Wood, and the hills surrounding the school. The peace is deceptive. Something lurks out there; maybe not in these hills and forests yet, but in the environs of England. Something is hunting mages.

Those were the exact words Mitali Bunce greeted us with, when we arrived at the gates of Watford; “Some _ **thing**_ is hunting mages.” We learned later that the word choice was deliberate: mage families have started disappearing throughout England, but there have been no witnesses to each event, no...survivors, if there are dead. We don’t know if what is happening is the result of human actions, the work of dark creatures, or some magical disaster. Or, it could be some combination of all of these. After all, our last magical catastrophe had combined the Humdrum, holes in the magical atmosphere, and human interference, specifically the mage’s interference in the magic of Simon Snow.

We still don’t know quite how or when that happened. Things the Mage said during our final confrontation made it clear that he’d done _something_ to Simon’s magic. Simon thinks the Mage must have picked him out as a normal child and found a way to push magic into him. He still believes he was born a Normal. Penelope points out that, if so, it had to have happened when he was an infant, since the holes started appearing around his presumed birth date. And how would the Mage have gotten hold of a Normal infant? 

I know what I think, but I refuse to share my ideas with Simon; he’s torn up enough over the events of last year. Finding out that he possibly killed his own father, the same father that must have given him up to Normal foster care? It would destroy him all over again. Besides, I have no proof...just a niggling suspicion that won’t let me go.

I push away from the wall and continue my rounds, trailing one finger lightly along the parapet. The so-called “witching hours” of the night are my charge; logical, I’m the only member of our little band who can see any distance in the dark. Simon takes the earlier evening (I’m his relief) and Shepard and Agatha divvy up the daylight hours. We came to a consensus from the beginning that Penny wouldn’t take guard shifts because she’s our best researcher other than me (but really, who else could have patrolled in the darkest part of the night and been at all effective?) Instead, she stays in the library for 12 hours every day. Our task is to watch for trouble, of course, but also to watch for mages. 

The Headmistress and other members of the Coven are canvassing the mage community, searching for information, and for allies, and spreading word of the peril we are facing. My friends and I watch for the allies who will gather here. Watford is the logical place to build a resistance, as the Mage well knew, (may his soul be damned to Dante’s 9th circle of hell) (though he deserves worse than to be frozen in a lake of ice forever, perhaps a lake of boiling sewage instead?) The school is emptied of students for the summer. Normals cannot find it on a map, cannot see it from a distance, and if someone who is not a mage comes too close by some bizarre mishap, the wards of the school will blind them if they even try to look at it. They become convinced that they have somewhere else they urgently need to be. 

That won’t help with non-Normal dangers, however.

**Penny**

Simon is flying again. I’m glad for him, that he is able to use his wings and have this time to himself, with no chance of Normals spotting him from below, or Google Maps satellites taking a photo of him from above. I’d say this is a positive development, far better than his constant funk on the couch in our flat a few weeks ago. Merlin, was it really only weeks ago? It seems like a lifetime. 

He looks so...free up there. I’d like to feel that free for once. I lie back on the grass of the commons and watch him and let myself think of nothing for a while. I let the pumping of his wings and the swoops and spirals of his flight hypnotize me until I’m nearly somnolent.

A flash of brightness catches my eye, and I turn my head slightly to watch as Shepard seats himself in the grass beside me. It’s too warm right now for his usual denim jacket, so he’s wearing a sleeveless red t-shirt with “Nebraska” lettered across the front in white font, and a pair of Watford football shorts in purple and green. He’s a fashion disaster, not that I’m one to talk. His brown, slender bare feet wiggle around in the grass. His arms are bare for once, and his curse tattoos stand out starkly against his skin. He tilts his chin back and smiles, following Simon’s soaring form with wonder in his eyes.

“What are you thinking, Shepard?” I wonder, curious to know if our thoughts are following the same tracks. (I refuse to participate in the obvious pun (and innuendo) of “ _ **Penny for your thoughts.**_ ”) (Besides, that’s a combined truth and counterfeiting spell, doubly forbidden by the Coven.)

He grins, that wide, white perfect smile (surely due to years of orthodontia). “I’m thinking,” he says, “that even with magic, I never expected that I would see a human being fly like that.”

“Well, now you’re seeing it without magic,” I say, with a touch of snark. I’m still a bit sensitive on Simon’s behalf, given how he’s struggled with losing his magic.

“What do you mean?” He looks at me, confused.

“What do you mean, what do I mean? I meant what I said, didn’t I?” 

“I mean...” he starts, and then pauses, as if trying to find the right words. He resumes, after a moment. “I mean, what do you mean, without magic? Clearly he couldn’t fly without magic.”

Now, _I’m_ confused. Maybe he means that the wings must have come from magic? “Well,” I reply slowly, not sure how much information I want to give to this Normal, even if I’m starting to like him as a person, “I mean, clearly Simon’s wings were made with magic, but you’ve heard him say that he is a Normal now. Therefore, right now he is flying without magic.”

Shepard snorts and flops on his back in the grass. “OK, OK, I get it that you guys don’t want to tell me anything about magic. But please don’t act like I’m stupid. It’s completely obvious that magic is the only reason Simon can fly.”

What on Earth is he ranting about? “Shepard, I’m not actually trying to keep anything from you, I’m telling the truth. Simon did have magic, up until a year ago. Actually, he was incredibly powerful, but he gave it up to save our world.” It occurs to me that he may be trying to weasel more information about magic out of me, so I put a stop to it. “ Now you’re not going to trick me into telling you more about mages with this nonsense!” I’m actually getting a little heated now.

Shepard rolls to face me, his eyes round with surprise. “You mean...Oh my god, you actually believe that!” And then he doubles over, clutching his stomach and erupting in a loud, raucous laugh. It’s a much higher pitched sound than I would have expected to hear from a fellow of his size.

Now, I’m really annoyed. I pull my purple gem out of my bra cup and point it at him. “ _ **Cat Got Your Tongue!**_ ” I shout, and he’s abruptly silent, his eyes bulging in surprise as he works his mouth frantically, but can’t get any words out. “Now!” I threaten, holding my gem hand in front of his nose, “You will stop your caterwauling and explain yourself, or I’ll spell you silent for a week!” 

Shepard nods frantically, all amusement having fled from his face, and I release him with an “ _ **As You Were**_.” He works his jaw for a moment, blowing his breath out in a soft raspberry and working his tongue around in his mouth to make sure it works again.

“I thought you knew,” he starts, speaking gently. Blast. He can clearly tell that this topic is bothering me. I cross my arms in front of my chest, grit my teeth, and nod at him to continue. “There’s no way flight, at least flight like that…” he points above us to where Simon continues his lazy spiral, “is possible for humans without magic.”

“Clearly it is,” I argue, “because Simon can fly and he doesn’t have magic.”

“But Simon’s flight breaks the fundamental laws of physics. And as far as I know, only magic can successfully break scientific laws”

I’m lost. “But Normals can fly...I’ve seen videos of them in those...those...flappy suits, flying about. How is that different from what Simon can do?”

“You mean wingsuits?” Shepard grins. “That isn’t really flying, it’s gliding. Without magic, I’m sure Simon could glide too, but he wouldn’t be able to fly.”

“And what, may I ask, is the difference?” I sniff.

“It’s a big difference, Penelope. Wingsuits allow humans to glide to the ground from high jump-off points. They don’t allow them to rise from the ground into the air like a bird.”

“Why not?” I’m frowning. I wish he’d get to the point.

“It has to do with a few things actually. Three things allow flying animals to get off the ground; wingspan, mass and muscles. The wingspan allows the animal to cup air and gives a bit of buoyancy that allows for slower falling, like how a parachute traps air to slow a fall? Wingsuits have enough loose fabric between the arms, legs and torso to trap air and allow the person wearing the suit to drift to the ground more slowly. But again, that’s gliding, which is only part of flying.”

Against my will, I’m starting to become intrigued. I nod at him to go on. “OK, for the next part, you have to understand how thrust works. Anything that flies, from bats to space shuttles, needs thrust to get off the ground. Even a brick can fly with enough thrust. Thrust is the amount of power you need to fight gravity and push something into the air. A rocket will use controlled explosions to do that, but a living thing needs to use its muscles, and it takes a LOT of muscle power to move a small amount of weight against gravity. That’s why birds that can fly are incredibly light for their size, with hollow bones and most of the body’s mass concentrated in the chest muscles for flight. Less mass makes it easier to fight gravity. That’s also why birds that are heavier are always flightless.” He pauses, looking over at me to see if I’m still following.

I’m starting to see where he’s going with this, but I want to be sure. “So, you’re saying Simon is too heavy to fly, right?” He nods, obviously pleased at my understanding. I roll my eyes. Who does he think he’s dealing with here, a moron? “But you said that muscles also help them fly…’ He holds a hand out in my direction in a ‘wait’ motion, and I stop talking abruptly.

“I’m getting to that,” he said, his enthusiasm clear in the way his eyes sparkle and the corners of his lips twitch up every few seconds. He’s actually rather captivating when he’s like this. I shove that thought away and bury it deep. “So, like you said, Simon is too heavy to fly. If his bones were hollow and his limbs were reduced, like a bird, his wings would be big enough to get him off the ground, but they aren’t. And his muscle mass is another reason why he couldn’t fly without magic.” 

I open my mouth to interject here, but he lays one finger gently across my lips in a shushing gesture, and I freeze in place, startled. “Patience! I’m getting there. So, you’ve looked at flying animals, right? What shape are their bodies?”

I’d never actually thought about that before...since those Cravens in fourth year, I’ve had trouble even looking at birds. And I’ve never been a fan of bats, horrid little rats with wings. Simon used to worry that Baz could turn into a bat because he’s a vampire (Simon’s an idiot, but I love him anyway), and I’d laugh at him for it. I think about it now. “I guess they’re...kind of round? Barrel chested?”

“Exactly!” Shepard cheers, looking at me fondly, as if I’m a prize pupil. Well, I am, though I suppose he wouldn’t know that. “So, birds and bats have all of their muscle concentrated around their chests. They even have an extra bone in front called a keel that allows them to attach even more muscle. All of that muscle is absolutely necessary for flight.”

“Simon has muscles…” I argue, but weakly. I’m starting to see where he’s going with this, and a hot ember of excitement is starting to burn in my chest.

“Not enough, and not in the right place,” he says, shaking his head. “Not only that, but Simon’s wings come out of his back. In birds and bats, the wings _are_ their arms. Simon still has arms and his arms still have a full range of motion. His chest and back muscles are enough to manage the work his arms do. But his wings only have his back muscles, and his back muscles are still doing everything else humans need back muscles to do, so how much extra power could they really give to his flight?”

That ember in my chest is growing into a flame. “So you mean…”

“I’m saying that Simon may or may not be able to do spells, but he clearly has magic. His magic is what allows him to fly...oof!” That last sound is startled out of him as I jump at him, wrapping my arms around him, in my excess of excitement.

“This is brilliant! Losing his magic...it’s been so hard. You don’t know what this will do for Simon! We need to tell him!” I suddenly realize what exactly I’m doing, and release Shepard and back away with my eyes averted, sitting back down in the grass. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are sparkling even more. I pull back and tuck my legs back under my skirt, smoothing the fabric nervously.

I think about Simon’s aversion to any conversation involving magic, of late. “We need to think this through. Simon may not believe us if we just throw this at him. He can be incredibly stubborn, and he’s certain he has no magic” I think for a moment, twisting the fabric of my skirt between my fingers. Finally I nod. “We’ll tell Baz first. He’ll help us figure out what to do.”

**Agatha**

Well, I’ve done it, haven’t I? I told myself I was done with all this. I vowed never to be drawn into any kind of heroism again. I suppose I’m doomed, aren’t I? I told myself I was just coming back to England to see my parents and pick up my wand, but of course! Of course we had to rush straight here from the airport! And of course the world of magic is in desperate trouble again. And, of fucking course, Simon and Penelope and Baz are needed to save the fucking day. Why did I ever let myself think it might be different?

I’m slumped in the library, seated across a table from Baz. We’re both flipping through thick books, looking for historical incidences of mages disappearing, or spells or rituals that could cause such a thing, but Baz is actually deeply immersed in research, while I’m just pretending. I know that the research is important, but I’m too frustrated to focus, and instead I’ve been ranting in my head for the last half hour.

I’ve undergone some personal growth at least; I’m not blaming Simon or Penelope for this situation. I could easily have called my parents for a ride, or called a ride-sharing service...or...or...something! I was the one who chose to come along, and I need to own it. I just can’t decide if I made this choice because I wasn’t ready to let them all go, or if it was because I needed to be a part of this. Or perhaps I’m developing a hero complex of my own? I did help to wipe out those Now Next vampires, back in Nevada…

My thoughts drift to my companions, as I struggle to figure out how they’ve succeeded in drawing me into their web. I’m not surprised that Penny and Simon jumped right into the fray, as it were. This is just who they are; they will always be the ones who will save the day. Simon is still the hero, as obstinate and self-sacrificing and good as ever. He’s more than the sweet, awkward boy I remember, though. He’s tired and wan and his eyes are haunted. Simon’s eyes follow Baz around whenever the other boy isn’t looking, but swiftly drop to the ground if Baz looks his way. I can’t decide what that means, exactly.

Baz is almost completely different from my memories of him; he used to be supercilious and cruel, but he’s apparently joined the hero business these days. He’s been helping anywhere he’s needed, pulling more than his weight each day, without a lick of his legendary sarcasm or a single word of complaint...even if he does have a sad, pinched look to his face. He also hovers near Simon constantly (at least when they can be found in the same room as each other), never interrupting or intervening in Simon’s difficulties, but looking as if he desperately wants to.

Penelope has also changed. She’s always been an unshakable pillar of confidence, but now, though she puts up an undaunted front, she seems...shaken. Her usual optimism is absent, and there’s something stretched, or...strained about her. She’s...tentative, when we discuss things now, and if there’s one thing Penelope Bunce has never been, it’s tentative. The events in America seem to have shattered her usual stubborn certainty.

The Normal, Shepard, is an unknown quantity. He’s openly agog over any kind of magic he sees and experiences, but otherwise he’s a study in contradictions. He’s cheerful and yet, somehow, solemn. He’s friendly and talkative, but never really talks about himself, only about places he’s been and people or creatures he’s met. He acts easygoing and carefree, but constantly watches Penny, a crease of worry between his brows, and his arms are covered with sinister looking tattoos.

I sigh. It’s apparent that I won’t discover my own motivations in a study of my companions. I remind myself not to frown or I’ll get wrinkles, and then roll my eyes at the realization that now I’m channeling my mother! Who the hell am I outside of all these people who impact my life? Who am I outside of my parent’s daughter? Simon’s ex-girlfriend? Penelope’s reluctant friend? Baz’s one-time admirer? Ginger’s best friend? Who the fuck is Agatha Wellbelove?

My increasingly irritated musings are rudely interrupted when Penelope and Shepard burst through the door. Why does she always have to burst into rooms, by the way? Is there anything wrong with opening a door in a sedate and normal fashion? I sigh. Now I’m just nitpicking. I turn to face her, because, of course, she’s made some vital discovery. When has she not?

“Baz!” she cries. She’s had his attention since before the door opened; in fact, his head shooting up from his book gave me my first hint that someone was coming. Vampire hearing, I suppose. He half stands, looking alarmed and Penny seems to realize that she’s giving the wrong impression because she motions him back to his seat while she puts her hands on her knees and bends over to catch her breath. Shepard slips past her and sits down at our table, folding his hands patiently in front of him.

“Baz,” she repeats, calmer now. “I have amazing news. It’s about Simon. Shepard told me some things that made me realize...I think he still has magic!” My spine stiffens at this; Simon’s magic was nothing to be happy about, in my opinion. Outside of his hero work, it was nothing but trouble. I’ve suffered from it’s weird effects all too often. Baz seems to have a different opinion, however. He’s again shot to his feet, his eyes wide and intense.

“Explain!” he barks, turning to the Normal. His tone is menacing, but Penelope and I spent eight years listening to him fight with Simon in school, and this is gentle compared to some outbursts I’ve seen. The Normal seems impressed, however, and swiftly repeats a conversation he and Penny had just had outside in the courtyard. Science was never my top subject in school, but I can follow well enough to know that Shepard clearly is good at the subject, and that he is certain that Simon’s flying is only possible with magic. He makes a good case for it, but…

“But Simon’s a Normal,” I interject. Penny looks at me and nods, reflecting my own confusion. Baz’s face is inscrutable. Shepard just looks curious, so I continue, “Simon was raised in care homes, and everyone knows magicians don’t give up their children. He had to be a Normal that the mage forced magic into, isn’t that why he was never really good at it?” 

Penny bites her lip, looking indecisive, but Baz’s expression hasn’t changed a whit. Shepard shrugs. Of course he wouldn’t know anything. I continue, wanting to understand myself. “How could Simon regain his magic if it was never his to begin with? Once he gave it up, wouldn’t it flow back to where it came from?” At least, that’s what I’ve understood about Magickal Ecology, from listening in on Penny’s conversations with her parents, all these years.

Baz’s expression firms up; he’s decided something. “Simon isn’t a Normal,” he murmurs. We all look at him with varying levels of interest and doubt. He straightens and turns away from us, hurrying to the rear of the library. When he returns, he’s holding a bound compilation of the Record, the mage newspaper. He slaps it down on the table between us all, and thumbs through the pages, settling on one with a headline blaring, “ _Chosen One Defeats the Goblin King!_ ”. Underneath the headline, next to columns of text, is a photo of Simon and the Mage. The Mage is smiling, and his arm is over Simon’s shoulders. Simon was 16 or 17 that year, I recall, and had recently had another growth spurt, so his head was actually even with the Mage’s. 

“Look at it!” Baz points to the picture. I frown; I remember seeing the image when the paper originally was published. There’s nothing special about it. But then, Baz runs his forefinger almost caressingly along Simon’s face in the picture and then repeats the gesture with Davy’s face (though with clearly less care). He traces their jawline, their noses, the curve of their eyebrows, and then repeats it, while staring at us fiercely. I think Penny and I don’t get it at first because we knew the Mage, and Simon, and how they were during our Watford years. The relationship between them during that time was always so formal, though Simon probably wanted things to be different. 

That’s probably why the Normal figures it out first, though he doesn’t realize what he’s figured out. “They certainly look alike, don’t they? Are they related?” That’s all it takes for Penny and I to get it. I feel like an arse for missing it all these years. Simon and the Mage--Davy--are _clearly related_. They have the same cheekbones, jawline, and eyebrow structure. Even their noses are nearly the same, though Simon’s is slightly broader. 

Baz sees in our faces that we’ve seen what he wanted to see, and slams the book shut. I suppose it is distasteful for him to look at the Mage after the crimes Davy committed against Baz and his family. “The Mage was Simon’s father,” he states, flatly. “I’m certain of it. Simon is NOT a Normal”.

**Shepard**

I think I kinda get the gist of what everyone is so excited about, though I don’t know who this Mage fellow is, or why it’s such a shock that he might be related to Simon. Parents give up their kids to the system all the time, it’s sad, but what can you do? I don’t buy for a minute what Agatha is saying about mages not abandoning their kids; mages are people too, and the one thing every group of people on Earth has in common, is that there are always some who are shitty and others who are desperate. So this Mage fellow gave up Simon at birth and then never told his own son about their relationship, even though they clearly met again years later? It’s a dick move, but not all that surprising.

Clearly, though, my recent companions and (hopefully?) friends are uncomfortable with this development. They sit in stunned silence for several minutes just staring at each other. Well, Baz isn’t stunned; he’s clearly known this for a while. He is angry, though. If I hadn’t already gotten to know him pretty well for such a short acquaintanceship, I would definitely be intimidated by his scowl. Maybe I am a little anyways.

The silence is broken when Agatha jumps to her feet and runs out of the room, long blond hair flying like a flag behind her. Baz and Penelope share a puzzled look, but they don’t have time to discuss their friend’s odd behavior before she’s sprinting back to our table, eyes bright and a little manic. She’s carrying a small purse, and, without explaining, she dumps it out into the center of the table. Some cosmetics, breath mints and a slim wallet tumble over the table surface, and a stiff piece of paper floats down to land among them. It’s a photograph. Agatha snatches it up and then the words come pouring out of her.

“I stole this...so incredibly sorry, Penny...your mom...she showed it to me and I...I just loved Lucy’s story...wanted to be like her...thought she ran away from magic, but I guess she didn’t…” Her words are tumbling over one another as she waves the photo in front of our faces. Baz, moving so fast that the photo is in his hands before I see him shift, scowls at the image. 

“What...is this?” He asks, his eyebrows ascending almost to his hairline.

“That’s my mum!” Penny points to the darker of the two girls in the picture, and yes, it’s obvious whose looks Penny favors. Her mother could be her twin sister, at that age. “And that’s the Mage...Morgana, he looks even more like Simon when he was young. Who’s the other girl, though?” 

Both of them look at Agatha expectantly. Agatha has caught her breath a bit, at this point and explains again, but more slowly and clearly. “Your mum showed me this picture last year at Christmas, after you went upstairs to talk to your father about the Humdrum. Remember she was talking about how her best friend was the Mage’s girlfriend? Well, that is Lucy Salisbury and she and the Mage were dating during and after school. Your mum thought that Lucy ran away to California, and that was so like what I wanted to do that I ...hem...borrowed the photo. It inspired me, I suppose? Then, I asked my mum about Lucy, and she told me that Lucy’s disappearance was a huge scandal at the time, and there were rumors of a baby, perhaps an illegitimate child.”

Wide-eyed, Baz and Penelope look down to the photo again. Now that I get the significance of it, I think I see what they are seeing; golden curls, broad shoulders, freckles and bold blue eyes. This is Simon’s mother, it’s obvious in retrospect. “I...I know the Salisburys,” Baz murmurs. “They’re an old mage family...not as old as the Pitches, but still, quite distinguished.” There’s an odd look on his face that I can’t decipher, probably because I don’t know him well enough yet.

“So,” I say, growing bored of being excluded from all of the significant looks these three are trading amongst themselves, “both of Simon’s parents were mages? Then it’s not illogical that he would have magic of his own then...and if all the magic he gave up should have flowed back to its source, then shouldn’t his own have returned to him?”

“It’s astonishing.” Baz looks down at the photo again and then resolutely hands it back to Agatha. “But...I don’t know how much of this we can tell Simon...he’s so...fragile now, in some ways. Would he be able to handle knowing that the Mage was his father, and lied to him about it for his whole life?”

“It’s not exactly our right to keep this from him,” Penelope points out. “And...maybe it might give him some closure, to know more about his family history.”

“And,” Agatha chimes in, “He ought to know that he still has family. Ruth Salisbury and her son Charles are still alive. Charles is married with children. Simon has a grandmother, an uncle, cousins...he has a right to choose whether he’d like to meet them.”

Baz sighs, but nods. “Let me tell him, though? I’d like to break it to him gently.” Penny looks like she wants to argue, but if I know anything about this group of people, I know that Baz will, hands down, be the most tactful spokesperson for this group. Penny is a tornado, all blunt words and recklessness, and Agatha just doesn’t seem to have the depth of feeling for Simon that Baz does. 

I pretend that my opinion counts and say, “That’s cool, Baz, we’ll let you take care of it.” Penny turns the full force of her glare on me and I shrug, but meet her eyes resolutely. Agatha just seems relieved. Baz smiles very slightly and nods, before gathering up his research materials and moving off to reshelve them.

**Simon**

I don’t know how I feel exactly, being back here, in this old, familiar place, filling this old familiar role. I mean, it’s not like I could’ve said no to Penny’s mum; her family has done everything for me. And even if my magic is gone, I still remember it roiling under my skin, I still remember the power, danger and promise of it. I still love it. The magical world took me in and accepted me as I’d never been accepted before. It’s only right that I return the favor, isn’t it?

Baz and Penny are in their element here. They’ve flung themselves into research and planning and mystery solving. I’ve been hanging back...I can’t help it. Being here feels simultaneously too good and too awful and I don’t know how to manage these feelings. I feel like I might burst out of my skin. Everytime my chest starts to clench and my eyes start to itch, I literally leap into the sky. Yeah, I suppose flying is just a different form of running away from my problems, but I really don’t care. When I’m flying I feel free; it’s the only time I feel free anymore. On the ground, my problems feel like chains weighing me down.

The evening sky feels so good; the wind slips easily over my wings and the early moon silvers the lake and the grass of the pitch below. I tend to spend my assigned patrol in the air. Why walk the ramparts when flying feels so amazing? My guard shift on the perimeter runs from six p.m. to midnight, and Baz takes the shift directly after. 

Volunteering for this shift specifically was another form of running away, I suppose. Between patrolling and sleeping at different times, and me refusing to join in the white-board-writing and researching, I barely see Baz, at least up close, and that’s fine. If he never sees me, he can’t exactly dump me, can he?

I was ready to do it, back in San Diego. I felt strong enough to save Baz from being shackled to the pathetic loser I’ve become. I’ve grown weaker since, though. I know it’s just a matter of time, but I’d like to put off that moment I lose him for as long as possible, because after I lose Baz, what else is left for me?

I have Penny, I suppose, but I don’t want to keep holding her back forever. I just don’t know that there is anything I could do to convince Pen to leave me. And I don’t know if I would survive if she did.

I’m feeling grim tonight. The wind funneling past my body and the moonlit beauty of the Watford grounds are doing little to divert my thoughts. I wish that I were back in Mummer’s House, curled up in my bed. Or curled up in Baz’s bad, wrapped around the chilled body of my boyfriend. I don’t know that I’m allowed to do that anymore, though. 

I don’t know if Baz is even my boyfriend anymore.

This is pointless. Thinking is pointless. It doesn’t change anything. I tilt my wings to cup the air and let myself glide down to the wall of the keep. I spend the rest of my watch cross-legged atop a watch tower, staring down at the drawbridge, and resolutely thinking of nothing at all.

**Baz**

Simon isn’t in view when I arrive to relieve him. I scan the sky and the walls, and, for a moment feel a faint trickle of fear when the sight of him eludes me. Then, a darker shadow detaches from a guard tower ahead and Simon swoops towards me to hover in midair in front of me. He’s dripping sweat, so much so that his curls are laying flat against his head and his faded t-shirt clings damply to his chest (much more chiseled and defined after all these weeks of flying. I tell my libido firmly to stand down).

“All quiet, Baz,” he mumbles. If it weren’t for my enhanced senses, I might not hear him at all. “ ‘M tired. M’ off. G’night!”

Before I can even lift a hand to beckon him to wait, he’s gone, his wings pumping powerfully as he curves away from me, soaring into the soft darkness towards our room. I sigh. This has been his pattern every night since we came here. He makes his report in as few words as humanly possibly, and flees into the night. He avoids the room when I’m there, and he makes sure to eat before or after I’ve left the dining hall, at least I hope. He’s not getting too much thinner, so I suppose he must be eating somewhere. I’ve known he doesn’t want to be around me anymore. 

I just wish I knew why. I wish I knew what I’ve done to make him hate me. And what I could do to win him back.

Oh well. I’ve got six hours to puzzle out how I’m going to corner him. He may hate the sight of me now, but he needs to hear what I’ve got to say.

**Simon**

Baz is sound asleep by the time I open my eyes the next morning. I know he really is asleep. He thinks he’s the smart one, but I know him better than I know anyone, and I can always tell when he’s faking sleep. His shoulders tighten and a little wrinkle forms over the bridge of his nose. Also, when he’s really asleep, he snores: a faint, whistling snore each time he exhales...like he’s doing now. I suspect it’s because of the broken nose I gave him, years ago. Baz would never deign to admit that he snores, so he’d never fake a snore. It’s cute. It never fails to make me grin, this tiny crack in his elegant facade. 

I throw on the first t-shirt and trackie bottoms I find that smell reasonable, and slip out the door. It wouldn’t do to be here when Baz wakes up. I jog down to the kitchens. Although we’re the only people here at Watford at the moment, a pallet of ready-to-eat food is magically dropped off in the kitchens every few days. I choose a few plastic-wrapped scones and a soft drink (no cider has appeared, nor any butter either; it’s a tragedy, really) and take my gleanings to the far edge of the pitch, where I sit under the visitor’s side stands and relax to break my fast.

The rest of my day, until my watch shift begins, generally involves staying high enough that I can always see where Baz is. I don’t want him to talk to me, but I’m as obsessed with him as ever. For the cooler hours of the morning, I sit on one of the guard towers and chat with Shepard whenever he passes me on his patrol. He’s giving me a lot of odd looks this morning, and I can’t think why. Maybe I should find a mirror and see if there’s food on my face or something? It wouldn’t be the first time.

I watch Baz leave our room from this post, around luncheon (so six hours sleep for him) (or actually five hours, since he definitely spent an hour working on his hair in the ensuite for it to look that good). I don’t know how he does it. I feel like crap after only eight hours of sleep, but he looks fresh and relaxed...in his pale blue button-up laced with patterns of slender tree branches adorned with clusters of pink blossoms. His snug blue jeans probably cost more money than I’ve ever seen in one place; they’d have to be expensive to fit that perfectly and look that good. I may spend considerable time ogling his arse in those jeans.

He looks around; for me, I think, but other than a brief glance at the sky, it never seems to occur to him to check rooftops. Though it doesn’t help his luck that as soon as I caught movement by Mummer’s house, I slid around to the opposite side of the roof I’m resting on and poked my head out just enough to see what he'd do.

I’m being ridiculous and I know it...it’s just that I’m feeling so taut right now, I don’t know that I could handle the conversation with Baz that I know is coming. I know I can’t “go off” anymore, but everytime Baz tries to talk with me, the pounding in my head and ache in my gut are so similar to the way I used to feel as I lost control, that I can’t help but think that I will. Go off, I mean. I feel like my skin might peel away like ticker tape, and my bones and muscles might fragment and fly apart, revealing the hollowness at the center of me. It’s irrational, but that’s what I picture happening if I have to cram one more feeling inside of me.

Back on that beach in San Diego, I was tired and hurting, but I was calm. I could have broken up with him, if he didn’t do it first. But Penny burst in with frantic energy, shouting about danger at Watford, or to Watford (I couldn’t quite make out which, at first), and the maelstrom of my fucking mind dragged me under again.

Once he is safely in the library, I know he won’t emerge for hours, so I slip into the kitchen, grab a foil package and a loaf of bread, and flee the scene of the crime. I generally spend the rest of my day on top of Mummer’s house, though I’ll descend to talk with Agatha or Penny every once in a while. I think if I avoided Penny, she’d turn me into a toad, so I don’t try. 

The foil packet (army rations or some such) is supposed to be boiled to make it more palatable, but I don’t really care. I can eat roast beef and gravy at any temperature, though it’s a crime against nature to call this stuff “roast beef”. The true tragedy is the bread, though; all of the food left for us is shelf-stable, so things that wouldn’t survive long outside a refrigerator, like butter, don’t arrive with our rations. There’s nothing sadder than eating dry store-bought bread. 

I still eat it all of course. And sometimes go back for seconds.

**Baz**

I’ve been racking my brain for hours, trying to figure out a way to corner Simon so that I can tell him what I need to tell him, but I’m coming up empty. Empty brain, empty heart...it’s predictable, isn’t it? I’m such a terrible boyfriend that I can’t even think of a way to get my boyfriend to speak to me.

It’s Bunce who breaks into my self-castigation, with her usual bluntness. “Have you told Simon yet?” I wince and look up at her. Her eyes are sharp; she knows I haven’t. 

It’s just her and I in the library right now; Agatha’s on patrol duty and Shepard just went off to find lunch after being relieved of his duty. Since we’re alone, I allow myself to be vulnerable. “It would be easier to tell him if he would let me talk to him at all.”

I flinch at the obvious pity on her face and look away. And then, of course, Bunch does what she does best; cuts through the bullshit with pure logic. “Write to him,” she says impatiently. “Simon won’t deny a direct request for a meeting. And if he tried to, he knows I’d kick his arse,” she finishes, with a stubborn tilt to her chin.

I...am an idiot. I share a room with Simon. I could easily leave a folded note on his bed, begging for a meeting (I’m willing to lower myself that far for this) (I don’t know who I’m kidding, I’d lower myself into a pit full of mer-wolves for Simon Snow). Simon would feel compelled to agree (his hero complex again). I restrain myself from dashing off this very minute to write the note; Simon won’t be in our room until midnight, so I can easily write to him just before I head out. I’ll ask him to meet me in the library when he wakes up tomorrow. Of course, some of the others will be there, but it’s a large enough building for plenty of privacy for our conversation. Plus, if he doesn’t believe me, he can verify my story with the others.

**Simon**

It’s on my bed when I fly into our window tonight. The note is folded, written in Baz’s posh handwriting, on creamy paper that smells expensive. 

“Dear Simon,” it begins, “I have a matter of utmost importance to convey to you. Please meet me in the library at noon. Please, Simon. I beg of you. Baz”

My fingers tremble as I read and I think wildly for a moment of dropping the note conveniently under the bed and pretending the wind blew it off the bed. Surely he’d have no way to know if I’d seen it. 

As I consider this plan, holding the note by one edge, so as not to wrinkle it, I suddenly smell smoke, and my hand feels hot. I look down, and then cry out, dropping the now flame engulfed piece of paper to the floor and shaking my hand to relieve the pain. Fuck! He spelled the paper with _**Burn After Reading**_! Now he’ll know I’ve seen it. 

Merlin, Morgana and Methuselah! I can’t not meet with him after that; he’ll see it, rightfully, as rejection. Baz doesn’t deserve that. I do. I deserve nothing but rejection, really. But I won’t do that to Baz, not even if losing him tears me apart.

I collapse on my bed, feeling too much. My head is pounding and my gut is churning and I feel like I’m about to go off. If I still had magic, I know I would. I don’t smell smoke (though is there a hint of cinnamon scent in the air?), nor do my edges blur. I feel my face stretching into a grimace of agony and I curl myself into a knot.

I don’t sleep.

_**Baz** _

Simon literally trudges into the library. I know he’s tired of me, but does he have to look like he’s going to his own execution? Defensiveness is already making my spine stiffen, and I know the words coming out of my mouth are overly formal, but I can’t help it.

“Thank you for coming, Snow. Please, be seated.” He nods and collapses into the chair across from me with a muted grumble. He’s been looking tattered for weeks, but he looks worse, now. His eyes are heavy and reddened, his hair is dull and greasy looking, and his curls are limp. He’s a bit thinner than he’d been in America, though that could be due to weeks of heavy aerobic exercise. This doesn’t seem to be a healthy thinness though; the skin of his face appears to hang off of him as if it’s losing its connection to his bones.

Oddly, though, he appears to have made an effort in the clothing department; he’s wearing a full Watford uniform...I mean, he’s been wearing bits of the uniform since we arrived...we all have; none of us had many clothes to work with. Only Agatha had the luxury of a full wardrobe to pack from after the travesty of America. But he’s wearing the full look; blazer, shirt fully buttoned, trousers, shoes and even the tie. I haven’t seen Simon wear this much clothing since we actually both went to Watford. He generally wears trackie bottoms, a t-shirt, and, occasionally, pants (if I’m unlucky).

He suddenly sits up straight, as if someone just spelled him with ‘ _ **Your Attention Please”**_. His face is closed off and his eyes are dim. “Well, c’mon, then. Say what you need to say!” he nearly snarls.

This...was not what I was expecting. He acts as if I’m attacking him. An unpleasant sense of deja vu tickles my spine. I shiver. This is too familiar. Too much like the bad old days where we hated each other...or at least he hated me and I pretended to hate him right back. I wonder what’s going through his head?

“Simon…” I hesitate, somehow expecting an interruption, but it doesn’t come. He’s now folded his arms in front of his chest. His eyes are intent on my face, and his lips are folded into a sullen pout. “I...Shepard and Bunce have convinced me of something, and...I think it’s important that you know.” He stiffens. Now what’s going through his head? He’s drawn back, further away from me as if repulsed, and his eyes flashed with hurt when I mentioned our other friends. 

“Penny’s in on this?” he spits. I pause, feeling thoroughly discombobulated by the contradiction between what I know I said, and what he apparently thinks I said.

“Ye-e-es,” I say slowly, trying to puzzle out his body language.

“Well!” he snarls, “That’s just perfect, now, innit?”

**Simon**

“I can’t tell what you mean, Simon…” For a moment, I pity him. Baz looks thoroughly confused and put out by my reaction. I decide after a few seconds that he deserves it; he’s the one breaking up with me, why should he feel good about it?

“I…” he looks so lost, and in spite of myself, I’m moved. I still love him after all. I keep any softening out of my face though, and keep my silence. He’s going to get the rest of this out without any help from me.

“It’s just...well…” he struggles to get the words out and it feels like an out of body experience to have Baz be the stuttering, inarticulate one. “Bunce and I...we both agree...you never completely lost your magic. I mean, you still have magic.”

Wait...what?

**Baz**

I can tell that he was not expecting that. Well, of course he wasn’t. He’s been describing himself as magic-less and Normal for a year now. But it’s more than that; he’s completely dumbfounded, but also, somehow, relieved? And angry? How Simon Snow can fit so many emotions on that lovely face, I’ll never understand.

Said face contorts through several emotions, before settling on his usual default: righteous anger. “Am I a joke to you?” he shouts, and stands up too fast, upending his chair with a clatter. He turns to storm out, and I know I have only seconds to catch him and convince him to stay. If I don’t, he’ll take to the air as soon as he’s out of this room, and I doubt he’ll ever be convinced to talk to me again. I relax some of the rigid control I usually keep on my ‘ _special abilities_ ’ and move to block him before his next step can hit the ground. I’m in front of him, my palm on his chest, my eyes pleading.

“Simon, please...hear me out, please! I promise I’m not mocking you, I’m deadly serious.” He doesn’t want to look up at me; his chin is tucked down against his chest. Is he...is he crying? “Oh, Simon, love, no, I would never. I need you to trust me...please, Simon…” My arms are encircling him now, my hands lightly resting on his shoulders, my forehead resting against his curls. He’s stiff in my arms for a few more moments, and then a sigh shudders through his body and he allows himself to lean towards me briefly, before he straightens, dashes the tears from his eyes with the back of one hand and turns back to pick up his chair and seat himself once again. 

In place of his former stiff posture, he now seems to have collapsed in on himself. His arms are folded on the table in front of him and his face hides behind them. I resume my seat and one reddened blue eye peers up at me. “Explain, then.” His voice is muffled, his tone dead. 

So, I do. I talk for at least half an hour, going through every sequence of events, starting with Shepard’s first conversation with Bunce, meandering through the arguments raised and final consensus achieved between Shepard, Bunce, Wellbelove and myself. I leave out Simon’s parentage, for now. Maybe we’ll never have to broach that topic. My throat is dry by the time I stop talking.

I wait to see his eyes light up or darken, to see hope or disbelief, but he stares at me blankly for a long time after I stop talking. I open my mouth several times to speak, but can’t think of what to say, of anything that will help. Finally, he shakes his head roughly, like a golden retreiver shaking water out of its fur.

“It’s a wonderful idea,” he says flatly, avoiding my eyes. “But, it’s not true. I don’t have mage blood. Any magic I had was stolen or forced into me by the Mage, I dunno. But you saw, Baz.” Now he looks up, and his eyes flash with a little of his old fierceness; my dead heart begins thumping faster. “You saw,” he repeats, sadder now. “You even tried to help me. My old wand wouldn’t work for me. The sword of mages wouldn’t come, even with your magic helping. I have no magic, Baz.”

I purse my lips for a moment, trying to figure out how to convince him. I mean, I’m not sure how to explain the wand and sword myself, actually. Why couldn’t he use them? And the part I’m sure I can prove, his parentage, is the last thing I want to bring up right now.

“Simon…” I begin, “First of all, I have reason to believe that you are mageborn. I’m not sure about the sword and wand...but…” My mind stretches for an explanation. “Perhaps... since you always had magic overflowing out of you, perhaps you never learned to call on it? Maybe it’s there, but a normal mage amount, and you wouldn’t know what that feels like?” 

**Simon**

Baz is blathering on about magic overflowing and I don’t know what all, but my mind has stuttered to a halt on ‘I have reason to believe that you are mageborn.’ I ignore him as my mind gnaws on that statement, but I can’t make sense of it. Baz seems to realize that he’s lost me and trails off, looking at me warily.

“What reasons?” I say abruptly. He furrows his brow in puzzlement and I can see him mentally retracing what he’s said. It’s obvious when he figures it out: his eyes widen, and then he looks away and chews nervously on his lower lip. Those are his tells; he’s hiding something.

“What are you hiding?” He twitches and his eyes fly back up to my face. He looks indecisive. He doesn’t want to tell me what he knows, I can see that. I can feel hot blood flowing into my face as my ire rises. “If you know something, Baz, you have no right to keep it from me!” I slam my fist down on the table and Baz jumps, startled.

**Baz**

“It’s not that I know something, exactly…” I begin, slowly. “It’s just..context clues.” He looks angry and unconvinced, so I sigh. “Don’t get your knickers in a bunch, Snow, I’ll tell you what I think...but…” I look sharply at him, trying to convey my love and admiration for this beautiful boy without words. “I want you to know that, wherever and whoever you come from, Simon Snow, does not make you who you are. You have done that all yourself, and who you are is amazing.” 

He looks puzzled now, and slightly alarmed. I’ve perhaps said too much, but what’s done is done. “Wait here.” I order, and traipse over to the desk where Penny and Agatha are seated. I gather up the copy of the Record, and the photograph, and then I hesitate.

“Ladies...this might go better if you’re there to explain your parts in this.” I state, looking meaningfully at both girls. They meet each other’s eyes for a moment, and something passes between them, and then they both turn, and nod in unison, rising out of their seats.

We return to Simon and I can tell he’s more uneasy now. I don’t take the time to wonder why. “I thought it best that Wellbelove and Bunce take part in this explanation, since they took part in the discovery.” Then, with no further ceremony, I spread the Record open in front of him. He looks at the picture for a long moment with little reaction, though I think I notice a tightening of his jaw. 

“What’s this, then?” he demands, with a hint of belligerence. 

With a sigh, I show him the same things I showed the girls, the commonality of features between himself and the mage. Then Bunce shows him the photo of her mother together with both of his parents and expounds upon our thoughts and the conclusions we reached. I grow more and more anxious as our explanation proceeds, because Simon’s muscles are growing tighter and tighter. An ugly look is growing on his face.

“This is nothing!” he snaps suddenly. “I don’t see it. You’re wrong!” 

Wellbelove and Bunce again share a look and then Agatha pulls out a delicate white spruce wand and points it at the picture. “ _ **When Two Become One--Boy**_ ” she pronounces and I look on in surprise and interest. I hadn’t thought of that spell. It’s an old-fashioned spell, but still popular with engaged couples and is sometimes even incorporated into mage wedding ceremonies. It’s function is to show what a given couple’s future children might look like; a bit of a mage party trick, if you will. The final word tells the spell what sex to assign to the resultant image. It’s not a future predicting spell; I think it just combines the couple’s dominant features to show the most likely possibility. Still, I’ve heard it can be pretty accurate.

The images of the Mage and Lucy Salisbury rise off of the photograph and hover in midair before Simon’s astonished face. Then, the two images blur together and, in their place, a new face appears. I catch my breath: although there are minor differences, like hair shade and nose shape, the face before me is quite recognizable as Simon Snow.

The new image hovers in midair for a few more moments, and then splits apart into two images once again and settles back into the photo. I’m so entranced by the spell that a loud clatter is interpreted by my brain a moment too late, and when its meaning occurs to me, I whirl around to find that Simon Snow is gone, his chair upended and the library doors still drifting slowly shut in his wake.

**Penelope**

Gracie Slick on a broomstick, that was a massive shitshow. Simon was never going to take this well, but, like I said, it’s not our right to keep it from him. I’m worried for him; of course I am, but I’ve dealt with Simon for almost a decade now, and there will be no getting near him tonight. I’m actually more worried for Baz. (I can’t believe I’m saying this.) (How things have changed!). The poor boy looks wilted. We chased Simon to the courtyard, at first, but Simon was barely a speck on the horizon, wings pumping recklessly by the time we passed the doors.

We return to our table and sit dispiritedly around it. Baz has his elbow on the table and is leaning his head into his propped up hand, loose hair falling over his face. His whole body is limp and drooping. Agatha is slouched back in her chair with her legs crossed, her lips pursed, and her eyes intent on nothing. After looking back and forth between the pair of them for a couple of minutes, I realize that it’s going to be up to me to start the conversation, if we’re going to talk about this at all. I stiffen my spine. “I think we need to make a plan,” I state, trying to exude confidence, even if really I’m feeling nothing but shaky inside.

Agatha rolls her eyes, but leans forward and locks her eyes on me. Baz doesn’t move, but I can sense him looking at me from under his shiny black hair. Neither of them attempt to speak, so I barrel on forwards. “He knows the worst, now. We just need to convince him that he has magic. He’s gotten used to thinking of himself as Normal. He just needs to readjust.”

“Does it matter that he has magic if he can’t access it, though?” Agatha wonders aloud. “I mean, if his flight is the only way he can manifest his magic, well, he’s had that ability all along, hasn’t he? There’s nothing to adjust to if he can’t do anything else with it.”

I’m at a loss; can Simon do anything with his magic other than fly? Can he sense it, or call it or direct it? I have no idea, and unanswered questions are usually what I thrive on, but what if these are unanswerable questions? “We’ll have to get him to try, that’s all,” I decide.

Baz shakes his hair back and straightens in his chair. He looks deep in thought, no longer hurting (for the moment) and I’m a little proud of myself for diverting him from his despair. “He has tried,” he begins, slowly. “We had him try to call the Sword of Mages, I even tried to help him with my magic…” He looks at me, one eyebrow lifted, challenging me to offer a solution. To my own surprise, I have one.

“From my research, the spell to call the sword is barely a spell, more an incantation to help the speaker focus. The sword comes if you are the intended wielder, and if you know you have the right to it. Simon should have been able to call it with almost no magic, actually...that’s weird. I wonder why it didn’t work?” I tap my forefinger against my lips for a moment, thinking hard, but an answer doesn’t come. Oddly, Baz is looking more alert and his stormy irises are looking inward as if examining some new thought or idea. “You know something, Baz,” I demand. “What is it?”

His lips part, as if to speak, but no sound comes out. Finally, he sighs. “Just an inkling of an idea, Bunce. I don’t even want to introduce it to the conversation until I’ve tested it out. So, you’re saying, if calling the sword doesn’t even need a spell, then Simon hasn’t actually tested his magic on a real spell. We can try to convince him to test it, but how will we get him a new focus? I haven’t seen his wand since before the mage died, and he was shit with it even when he had it.”

“Well, I think we can safely assume that Simon’s wand problems had to do with his magical excess. After all, if the Mage was related to him by blood, then Simon was using a family wand the whole time. So the ‘wand not accepting him’ argument is bunk and…” I grin, because for once I’ve got one over on Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch. “I know where his wand is.”

**Agatha**

Those normal fiction and screenplay writers who describe a character pulling immense objects out of a bottomless bag have nothing on Penny’s purse. It’s about the size of a teapot, but when she opens it, it appears completely empty. She purses her lips and mutters “ _ **Come out, come out wherever you are**_ ,” and Simon’s plain wooden wand appears between her index finger and thumb. She offers it to Baz with a flourish, but he just stares at the still apparently empty bag, aghast. 

With an exaggerated eye roll, she deigns to explain: “It’s a pocket portal,” she says. “The other end is in our apartment. I invented it myself” She looks quite satisfied with herself, but Baz looks even more horrified

“Don’t you think we could have used this contrivance while we were completely destitute and deprived of food, clothing and shelter in America?” he demands. 

Penny’s eyes flash. “I didn’t have it in America! You know that! You would have seen it on me! I wasn’t sure if the connection would hold when the distance was so great, so I left it at home. When I talked to my mum, I asked her to pick it up and bring it to Watford for me. I thought it might come in handy, and, well, it has, hasn’t it?” 

Baz’s voice grows menacing. “Do you mean to tell me that all this time, when I’ve been forced to wear a uniform every day and wash with school soap, that you had access to everything we’ve got stored back at the apartment?” Penny rolls her eyes and smirks, as Baz almost wails, “I’ve been _deprived!”_

I try to block my laugh, but I can’t help but snort. When Baz spins to face me, affronted, I lose control completely at his betrayed expression. I hold both hands over my mouth, but another, unladylike sound bursts free from between my fingers. Over his shoulder, I catch Penny’s eye and Penny starts to giggle...and then I start to chortle...and within moments, we’re both roaring in laughter at the ridiculousness of Baz’s plight. Affronted, he stands up, straightens his shirt, and stalks off to the lingering sounds of our amusement. Poor Baz...for a pretty fearsome dark creature, not a one of us truly fears and respects him as we probably should!

**Baz**

Merlin and Morgana, I’m not going to stay to be mocked, just because I have standards of personal grooming! It’s not like Bunce, with her frizzy, unkempt hair and sloppy t-shirts cares much for her appearance, but I would have expected Wellbelove to understand my dismay. Well, let them have their fun. I climb the stairs to our tower in Mummer’s house, and recite the spell to enter the room (I was thrilled to find that our room still recognized us; we had the best room in Watford, and I am relieved not to have to share a lavatory with the others.) (Sharing with Simon is still a trial though, no matter how much I love him. Is it so difficult to put the cap back on a tube of toothpaste?) 

I strip down to nothing (it’s not like anyone is going to walk in on me; I doubt Simon will come back for hours yet, if he comes back tonight at all) (I hope he at least remembers his patrol shift). I gather my pyjamas and lock myself into the ensuite. Once the clothing is set on the closed toilet lid, I turn the shower on, water as scorching as the pipes will allow, and clamber in. I close my eyes and force my muscles to loosen, one by one, until I am limp and relaxed under the spray. I’ve got at least an hour before the hot water runs out, and I’ve got thinking to do.

**Simon**

I don’t know how long I fly before I’m able to actually think again. Long enough that my back muscles burn and I can’t seem to catch my breath. I glide to a rest in the top of a tall oak tree and straddle the fork where the trunk splits into three large branches. I need to rest, and I have no idea where I am, so this will have to do. This split is broad enough that I won’t slip if I fall asleep. To be sure of this, I loop my tail around the branch below me and hold onto the end of it. At least if I slip, the painful yank ought to wake me up in time to get my wings open.

Once my mind is working again, it insists on tormenting me with years of memories; the shitty time of my life before my eleventh summer has been mostly blocked from my memory, but I remember enough to know why I don’t want to remember it. But I remember most of the years since, and there were plenty of shitty things about those years too. I remember the mage retrieving me from care, the summer I turned 11, and how he presented himself as my rescuer. I remember preening at the slightest positive affirmation from him, and how rare those compliments were. I remember the frequent criticism and constant demands. I remember how he sent me back to care, every summer, so that “hardship” could “sharpen my blade.” 

In light of recent revelations, I feel sick thinking about these things. Even the events that used to be happy memories for me, like being brought to Watford, are blighted by the knowledge that all along, the Mage must have known I was his son. He must have been the one to give me up to care in the first place! He didn’t want me when I was a helpless, blameless infant, and he didn’t care enough about me to protect me as a hapless, damaged child. 

In fact, as the torrent of memories from that night in the White Chapel flow relentlessly through my brain, I think that he must have been the one who broke my magic, for some purpose of his own. To make a puppet chosen one, perhaps? It was a relief at the time to realize that I wasn’t actually the chosen one, but now it just feels like one more blow, because not only was I not chosen at all, but I was a fraudulent chosen one foisted on the world of mages by my own father. My father who didn’t want a son at all, just a brainless champion for his own twisted causes.

It’s the ultimate rejection. I feel a despair so thick and blanketing that I have no idea how I could dig my way out. It crowds out every other thing I could be feeling, until, perhaps in self-protection, a fog of exhaustion finally overwhelms my racing thoughts and I sleep.

**Shepard**

Breakfast was quiet today. Baz, as always, wasn’t there, but Penny and Agatha did little but consume their instant oatmeal and exchange significant looks. They weren’t happy looks. I’m suspecting that the planned talk with Simon has not gone well. 

I’d like to help them, but from what I’ve seen so far, Simon is profoundly stubborn (which can be good! Baz wouldn’t have survived Nevada without Simon’s stubbornness!) I have had, in the past, really good luck with stubborn creatures--my debate over lumber rights with a Wendigo in Michigan is one example of that. Not that Simon's a creature--I’ve learned my lesson about using that kind of terminology regarding this apparent mage/dragon hybrid.. 

But to break through to a mule-headed creature, I need to be able to get that creature to talk to me, and of the four of us gathered here, Simon is the most close-mouthed. I may have got off on the wrong foot with him originally, by calling him a thing instead of a person, and I truly regret that. I’ve seldom seen him talk much to anyone, though, and the people here are apparently his best friends. And Baz is his boyfriend!

During my guard patrol, he’ll often perch like a vulture at the top of a guard tower. He’ll wave to me, and ask how’re things, but he has never divulged a lick of personal information. Hell, I traveled with the four of them for days, and had no idea that he and Baz were together until that first confrontation with Lamb!

I puzzle over the whole messed up situation as I amble along the parapet. I saw Simon jet off to the north last night and, as far as I know, he hasn’t come back. Every so often, I strain my eyes northwards, to try to catch him heading back here. In the end though, it’s Simon who catches me.

**Simon**

Shepard must be on the other side of the school when I wearily flap my way back to Watford. At least, I don’t see him yet. I collapse onto my usual guard tower perch and pant. I must have been on some sort of adrenalin rush last night, because getting back here took so much longer than flying out had. 

I lay against the roof tiles on my stomach, and my wings hang limply from my shoulder blades, their full span covering half of the roof, and drooping down to supply leathery curtains to the windows below. I think it surprises Shepard as much as me when he strolls right into my dangling wing.

“Oof! Oh, hi Simon! Welcome back.” He steps back to peer up at me through his glasses, his eyes squinting against the mid-afternoon glare.

“ ‘Lo, Shep.” I lift my hand enough for a limp wave in his direction, but keep my face pressed to the tiles.

“Are you doing OK, Simon?” I wave him off, but he persists. “Everyone’s been really worried about you…” I wince, and he lets go of whatever else he intended to say. I hear a shuffling of feet against stone, and think that he’s continuing on with his patrol, but after a long moment of silence, he speaks again. “I know how it feels, Simon, if you ever want to talk about it.”

This makes me see red. I push up to my feet and flare out my wings. I’m well aware of how threatening I look like this, and occasionally, I use it to my advantage. “How could you possibly? You’ve gone on and on about your parents and how wonderful they are. I just found out that my Da was a fucking madman who stuck me in children’s homes until I could be of use to him. Oh, and then, he made me into his child soldier and pitted me against monsters every year from the time I was eleven. And the cherry on top of this sundae of fatherly love is that he’s the one that screwed up my magic, and probably killed my mother on top of that!”

It’s Shepard’s turn to wince. He rubs a hand across the back of his neck, his eyes turned to the ground. “Uh, no, I can’t relate to that, exactly. But I do know how it feels to feel rejected, unwanted. I, uh, haven’t told you folks all of my history.”

Despite myself, I’m interested. I mantle my wings like a hawk settling onto its roost, and sit back down onto the roof with my elbows resting on my knees. Shepard still isn’t meeting my eyes. I may be thick as a tree trunk usually, but even I can see he’s feeling uncomfortable. I make an effort to gentle my tone, and say, “I’m willing to hear what you have to say. But it’s OK if you don’t want to share.”

He nods and meets my eyes again, but his unending smile is oddly absent. “Well, the thing is, my parents aren’t my birth parents. I love them dearly, but I was born to a different family in a very different living situation. Until I was four, I lived with my birth mother. She didn’t know who my father was, so neither do I. She, uh, wasn’t thrilled about having a kid.” His eyes are hooded and he’s looking off into the distance. His visage speaks of old pain and I feel both sorry for him and a little ashamed of my own self-absorption. 

“Anyways, I guess one day she decided she’d had enough of motherhood, so she drove me to the police station and told me to sit on the steps until someone came and got me. It was late at night, and deserted, and I was confused and scared. I cried, but she...she just left…” He wipes at his eyes surreptitiously and is silent for a long moment. I feel my own eyes stinging at the thought of tiny, four year old Shep alone in the dark and cold, abandoned by his only parent. At least I hadn’t even known I was abandoned until I was twenty-one years old.

“What happened?” I whisper, once he seems to have collected himself. He laughs, and there’s a bitterness in his laugh that sounds wrong coming from Shepard. His face is grim now.

“I was a little kid, I’m probably remembering minutes as if they were hours, but it seemed like I sat there, crying and shivering, all night long. Eventually, an officer leaving at the end of his shift found me and brought me inside. The secretaries and officers made a big fuss over me, and I’m sure they tried to find my mom, but I only knew my first name. I didn’t even know my own birthday--I still don’t, so they had no luck. I bounced around the system for a couple of years, and when I was six, I was placed with my parents to foster. They loved me as if I were their own, and eventually they officially adopted me.”

He’s staring up into my eyes with all the earnestness I’ve come to expect from him. “What saved me, Simon, was that, despite my rough start, people along the way told me over and over again that I wasn’t to blame for what my mother did, that I was lovable and loved. Now I’m going to tell you the same thing. No matter what your father, or mother did, it doesn’t change who you are.” 

“You have a right to be angry, definitely. But if you keep hurting yourself for what your asshole father did, how is that different from me punishing myself for what my mother did? You don’t deserve it and neither do I. You are loved; Baz and Penny love you with all their hearts, and I don’t know her well, yet, but Agatha seems pretty fond of you too. Even Mrs. Bunce loves you, I could see it in how she fussed over you when we got here. You are not to blame for your father, and you have a family here that loves you. Try to keep that in your heart when things get hard.”

He finally lapses into silence, perhaps to let me get a word in, but I find I don’t have anything at all to say. I feel stunned. Is that what I’ve been doing? Have I been blaming myself for the Mage’s actions? If I think about blaming Shepard for his mother’s abandonment, I shudder in revulsion. So why am I being crueler to myself than I am to this Normal who I’ve only known for weeks?.

I finally whisper, weakly, “I should have seen through him...I shouldn’t have followed after him like a whipped dog.”

“What choice did you have?” Shepard points out with unshakeable logic. “You were a child. He was your guardian. It was his job to take care of you, just as it was my mother’s job to take care of me. They both did shitty jobs of it, but that’s on them, not us.”

“I didn’t question his orders, though. I always did what he told me, until the end. Baz was right about him all along, and even Penny didn’t care much for him, but I didn’t listen.”

“You were mistaken, but your mistakes weren’t due to selfishness or cruelty,” Shep points out. “We all want to believe the best of those we care about, and want to defend them against criticism and harm. Agatha told me a little of your history last night. You had no reason to trust Baz at the time, from what I understand, and every reason to distrust him. As for Penny, did she ever give you a reason why she didn’t care for him?” He looks at me intently, so I try to remember every time Penny and I ever spoke of the mage.

“Er...she didn’t like that he sent me into care each summer...she thought he was too intense and needed to relax from time to time...she thought he was too hard on me...I mean, in that last year before I killed the Mage, her dislike got more obvious…”

“And isn’t that the same time you began to doubt and distrust, yourself?” Shepard looks at me shrewdly. I nod, reluctantly.

“I...the last year at Watford I did start to doubt and question him.”

“So, just as your best friend started to see how wrong the Mage was, you were seeing it too, but you were also dealing with feelings for him as a mentor that Penny didn’t have to fight. You broke free of his influence, Simon. That’s to your credit. Don’t hate yourself for not doing it sooner; that’s pointless and it’s too harsh towards your younger self. Be grateful that you did start seeing him for who he was before it was too late. Penny told me the story, you know. You saved everyone at great personal cost to yourself. You are allowed to be proud of that, Simon.”

My mind is whirling. “I...you’ve given me a great deal to think about, Shepard. I think I’m going to go do that thinking, hard as it is for me,” I attempt a joke to lighten his sober un-Shepard like expression. He humors me with a small smile, and waves, as I rise to my feet and push off of the roof, spiraling down to the Wavering Wood below.

**Baz**

When I open the door to my room and see Simon there, sitting on the bed, I almost go spare on him...he’s been gone more than 24 hours and I’ve been looking for him everywhere. I’ve exhausted my magic casting **“Scooby Dooby Doo, Where are you?”** and **“Come out, come out, wherever you are!”** to no avail. My fists clench at my sides and I can feel what little blood is in me trying to rise to my face.

Luckily, I restrain myself long enough to take a second look at him. He looks...dreadful. Tired, obviously tired, with dark circles lining his eyes and lines creasing his forehead. He’s paler then I remember...those freckles and moles that I love so much stand out in stark contrast. His hair is disheveled and tangled with twigs and leaves. He looks like someone buried him in the woods and he dug himself out.

“What happened to you, Snow?” I whisper. He looks up at me blearily.

“Huh? Oh...nothing. I spent a night in a tree. Came back yesterday morning...talked to Shep...spent the rest of the day and night walking the Wood.” Shepard _did not_ mention this. I may have to rethink my friendly feelings toward the Normal. I can tell that Simon’s having trouble pulling his thoughts together. During long pauses in his speech, his eyes droop closed and then pop wide open again.

“Never mind, Simon,” I let him off the hook. “You look like you’ve been in a cage match with a dryad and lost epically. You’d probably better get some rest.” I turn to go. I’ll just gets some breakfast so that he can fall asleep without me hovering

“No, wait! Baz!...” When I turn back and quirk an eyebrow at him, he holds out his hands, palms facing up, between us. “I have something I need to say to you, and then maybe I can rest.”

He’s fighting to keep his eyes open, but he’s wearing his most pigheaded expression. Moron. I sigh, and move over to my bed to sit, facing him. .

“Baz…” he begins, “ I--I need to apologize to you.”

“What? Whatever for?” I ask, surprised.

“Some things Shepard said. He...made me think...at least more than I usually do. I’ve maybe...been hating myself for things I shouldn’t...things my...my _father..._ did.” He winces, and sucks in a deep breath at the word “father”

“What did Shepard say?” How could the Normal manage to reach Simon after knowing him less than a month when I haven’t been able to get him to open up to me in over a year?

“He...he told me a little about his own life...that’s not important, and his business to tell, but...he asked me if I’d blame him for what others did to him. He said that I didn’t choose my parents’ actions, and none of that is my fault…”

“I would have told you that,” I begin, impatiently.

“Wait! I know you would, Baz. Just...wait.. Let me finish. What he said, and the way he said it, made me think about the things you and Penny have been saying all along...but it’s different somehow, coming from him. He doesn’t really know me, he’s not my...my boyfriend, or my best friend. He has no agenda to accomplish.” 

“I know you’ve told me that what happened wasn’t my fault, and Penny’s told me. Merlin, even the Coven told me it wasn’t my fault...and I believed it, but subconsciously, I didn’t.” He fiddles with the pajama cloth covering his legs and continues. “And...I think, because no one ever gave me the punishment I felt like I deserve, I’ve been punishing myself. I’ve punished myself by pushing you away.”

He sighs. “I didn’t think I deserved to have you. You’re so much _more_ than me, Baz. You’re smarter, fitter, posher...better at everything.. I told myself that a pathetic, useless wretch like me could never deserve you, and so I pushed you away to punish myself. And I know I hurt you. I’m sorry, Baz.”

My eyes widen and my thoughts begin to sprint. Could this mean…? I take a risk and stand to step over to Simon’s bed. I gingerly sit, as if afraid the bed could be pulled out from under me at any moment, and I look at Simon. He hasn’t flinched away like he usually does these days, and his eyes are full of what looks like yearning. I’m afraid to allow myself hope, but...if I lose Simon, what is the point of going on anyway? I reach my hand out slowly, as if approaching a skittish colt, and suddenly Simon is wrapping his large, warm hand around mine.

I choose my words carefully. “Does this mean you’re going to stop...pushing me away, I mean?”

“I never wanted to push you away, Baz. I’ve only ever wanted to pull you closer. But that feeling scared me, and I felt like I didn’t deserve it, and all those emotions just made me want to jump out of my skin when you were near me. It was easier to just have you...not be near me.”

I consider this. Finally, I ask, “What do you want, then, Simon?” 

“I want you, Baz. I want this. I don’t know if you still want me...I’d understand if you didn’t, but I’m telling you this, while I’m too tired to be afraid, so that later, if I backslide a little, you’ll know it’s not on purpose. I’m going to try hard not to push you away anymore. I...I love you, Baz.”

A bolt of lightning shoots down my spine. My eyes open so wide that my eyelids ache. I never thought I’d hear those words from him. By Morgana, I never even thought he felt that much for me. Some dark, shriveled kernel inside me, perhaps my long dead soul, is slowly growing, pulsing and streams of words and sobs and cries of jubilation are rushing to my lips. It takes a masterful effort to restrain myself from spilling my own love confession while simultaneously cheering and bursting into tears. I zip my lips shut until I can be certain what will come out when I open them.

I realize that the struggle has taken me a moment too long when Simon’s face starts to crumple. In panic, I loose my hold over my lips. “I love you, Simon...Crowley, of course I love you. I’ve loved you for half my life, and I’m going to love you for the rest of it...I...I never thought you could actually love me like that...I’m a fucking monster, how can you love me?” To my humiliation, I feel my eyes overflow, but I have too much pride to rub at my eyes like a toddler. I let the tears make salty streaks down my face as I stare intently into Simon’s eyes, willing him to just _believe_ me.

His eyes widen at my avalanche of words and I see him struggle to follow. He scowls when I call myself a monster, and for a moment looks panicked when I begin to cry. He reaches his free hand up and pats me awkwardly on the shoulder. “Um...There, there, Baz. It's alright... don’t...don’t cry.” Crowley, he’s terrible at this, but I’m a whore for any attention from Simon Snow, so I just sit and sniffle, and stare at him. 

Finally, tentatively, he reaches one gentle hand out and uses his thumb to swipe away the tears running down my face. Then, he shuffles up onto his knees, releases the hand that’s holding mine, and brings both hands up to bracket my face. “Baz…” he whispers, “I..I told myself you were tired of me, that you’d never really loved me. For what it’s worth, you’re not a monster. Or if you are, we’re both monsters together.” He brings his forehead down to rest against mine. 

“It’s like you said, Baz. We match.”

**Penelope**

When Simon strolls in the next morning, looking...well, looking NOT DEAD, and holding Baz’s hand, I don’t bother to try to contain myself.

“Simon Snow, you are a fucking arsehole!” Shepard and Agatha both jump at my volume and I think some spit flew out of my mouth, but I will not be holding back today. “Gone! Two days! No word, no word at all! I thought you were dead! I thought I would never even find your body to cry over! I swear to Merlin, I’m going to turn you into a fucking house cactus so you can never fly off and do this to me again. I...I…” No more words are coming, but a torrent of tears flood my face and I fling myself into Simon’s arms.

After a few half-hearted “there, there”s, paired with awkward pats on the back, Simon relaxes a bit and wraps me up tight in his arms. He just holds me until my storm of weeping calms and then he grasps my shoulders and holds me away from him enough that he can look in my eyes. “I’m sorry, Penny. I’ve been doing a lot of shit stuff, lately. And I probably will do more. But I promise you, I promise that I’m done running away, and I’m trying to be done with pushing my friends away. Keep holding me accountable, Pen. I’m going to try to be a better friend to you.”

I sniff loudly and magic a handkerchief from thin air. I blow my nose into it and then dispose of the soiled cloth, with “ _ **Into thin air**_ ”. Simon watches me, warily. I don’t blame him for being cautious, because I am the master of the epic rant, but I take pause to look him over now, and he looks so weary and beaten down, I don’t have the heart for it. He’s actually admitting that he was pushing us away, and that’s something. I sniffle.

“‘S alright, Simon. I’m just so glad you’re safe. What were you doing, the last two days?”

He sighs, and I expect his usual shrug of dismissal, but he surprises me. “I’ve been thinking, Pen. And screaming at the world, and punching things and crying. But mostly thinking.” It’s only now that I notice that aside from the weariness in his face, his knuckles are scratched and scabbed over. Oh Simon…

“Did you come to any conclusions?” I venture. Well, there’s the shrug. But this time, instead of turning away or changing the subject, he follows with an actual answer. 

“I’ve realized that...a lot of the thoughts I’ve had over the last year were based on feelings...that weren’t really based on reality. They still _feel_ real...but I’m going to try to do what you and Baz always do to solve a problem. I’m going to try to...be rational.” He grimaces, as if that’s an unpleasant idea, but then his face relaxes into a warm smile. “I love you, Pen. You’ve been a better friend to me than I deserve, and I’m going to try to be a better friend to you. What can I do to make up for scaring you?”

“Oh, bollocks, Simon. You’ve always been a wonderful friend. The first thing I want you to do is stop putting yourself down all the time. I don’t let anyone talk shit about my friends, so I won’t let you talk shit about yourself!”

“Fair enough,” Simon chuckles. “What else?”

“Well, you’ve already said you won’t run away again, but I know you, Simon, so I’m just going to ask you for one more thing and then you can consider your penance met. I want you to tell me when things start to get too overwhelming for you. Tell me before you’ve blasted off to the bloody moon to escape your feelings. Or tell Baz. Just give us a chance to help you with your feelings before you lose control, hmm?”

Simon looks pensive for a moment. “I...I don’t always know too much ahead of time, but I’ll try to pay attention. And... if you notice before I do, can you tell me if I’m losing control? I mean, when I used to go off all the time, you always noticed me losing it before I actually blew up and you usually were able to calm me down…” He turns to Baz, who has stayed a step behind him, politely pretending not to hear anything so as to give us the illusion of privacy (Shepard and Agatha have no such qualms and have been staring shamelessly the whole time). “And you too, Baz. Will you help me by letting me know when I’m about to lose my shit? Merlin knows, I’m not the most self-aware person out there.”

Baz smiles down at Simon and I swear the air thickens in here. I avert my eyes. These two...the love between them is sometimes so palpable that you can tell that everyone else in the room has ceased to exist for them. “Of course I will, Snow. I’ll even refrain from poking you to see if you’ll explode...now see there, I’m capable of personal growth.”

“Oh sod off, Baz,” Simon retorts, but he’s grinning, that wide, heedless grin that I haven’t seen since we fought those vampires in America. I notice with inward rejoicing that Simon has sunk into Baz, and is clasping his hand tightly again. His tail is also wrapped around Baz’s waist. Aside from vampire-slaying-induced snogging, I haven’t seen these two be physically affectionate with each other in ages. I swear, if I don’t interrupt this syrupy moment, I’m going to tear up.

I haven’t seen this much close contact between them in weeks, and it fills me with relief to see it, but I have a reputation to maintain, so I roll my eyes dramatically and say, “Merlin, Morgana and Methuselah! I may have to take back my forgiveness if you two don’t lay off the perpetual flirting! Come and eat some breakfast, boys.” Breaking apart (though I notice that Simon’s tail is snugged around Baz’s thigh), both boys move to join us at the table, and Agatha hands Simon some shrink wrapped scones while Shepard passes Baz the coffee.

We eat in silence for a while. Finally, when Simon is vacuuming the last crumbs from his plate, I test the waters as casually as I can, “are you ready yet to talk about your magic?”

**Baz**

Bunce has many excellent qualities, but tact is not one of them. I feel Simon stiffen at my side and cautiously rest my hand on his knee, pressing gently to let him know I’m with him, whether he decides to talk about this or not.

Simon swallows his long, showy swallow (I still find it mesmerizing). I get so lost in watching the bobbing of his Adam’s apple, that I almost miss it when he starts to speak. “Uh...I dunno, Penny. I don’t know what there is to talk about.” He winces when she gives him a meaningful look, and continues, placatingly, “I don’t quite get what Shepard’s saying about my wings, and my magic…” (at these words, his wings flare out behind him...they always do that when they’re talked about...is there such a thing as sentience for wings?) (his wings are beautiful...I barely keep myself from a lovelorn sigh at how exotic and lovely he looks with them flared out behind him. I give myself a mental slap--bad vampire, listen to your boyfriend, don’t moon over how fit he is), “but I accept that he knows what he’s talking about. I just...I dunno.” He finishes lamely and looks at me for help. This lovable idiot.

We didn’t fall asleep immediately last night. With his permission, I magicked away the dirt and debris from his hair and body, because he was too tired to shower. When he collapsed back on his bed, I moved to return to my own, but he stopped me. “Where ‘r you goin’?” he slurred. I glanced back at him, weighing my words.

“To bed, Snow,” I finally responded, keeping it simple.

He hauled himself upright again at that and peered at me out of reddened, half shut eyes. “Y’ don’ hav’ ta sleep over there…” he mumbled, trailing off in a yawn.

My dead heart stuttered to life in my chest and I caught my breath at the apparent invitation. But I’ve been burned before, so I held on to my caution. “And where should I sleep, Simon?” I held my breath, tension thrumming though my frame while I waited for his answer.

He blinked stupidly at me before patting the mattress beside him. “Y’ can sleep w’ me...if y’ want.”

I’m not a fool, so I barely hesitated, before returning to him, folding myself down into his bed and pulling the covers up over me. He closed his eyes and smiled at me, and then wrapped one arm around me and pulled me closer. “This is alrigh’, eh?” He whispered. 

“Of course it is, Snow. You can manhandle me anytime.” 

His lips quirked up and I strained to hear his last few words as he drifted off. “Tha’ can be arranged…”

Now, he’s staring at me with those dumb dog eyes of his that he knows I can’t resist, and I roll my own eyes and sigh as if put upon, but wink at him with the eye facing away from the others so that he knows it’s all a front. The last thing we need is more misunderstanding. 

“Approaching this _rationally”_ , I begin, “Can you go over the reasons you think you can’t have magic with us again, see if we can find any flaws or loopholes?” 

“Well...I don’t feel magic. That’s a big one.”

Penny purses her lips. “That’s a tough one, I agree, Simon. But...remember last time we talked about this, we speculated whether you were so used to being oversaturated with power that you might not recognize what a normal level of power feels like? Do you think that might be possible?” 

Simon frowned. “If I wouldn’t know what normal magic feels like, then how would I know if I’m feeling it, you mean? I lived around magic for years, Penny. I know what magic feels like. Yours feels thick and tastes like sage. Baz’s burns.”

“Yes, but Simon, feeling other’s magic isn’t the same as feeling your own. Also, young magelings can’t usually feel magic… you were probably an exception because your magic was so strong, it must have been like having your senses dialed up to eleven. But young mages usually develop the ability to sense magic over time, as they start to learn how to use their own magic. Since you actually have never tried to work with your own natural magic, maybe it’s like you’re back in first year again? Maybe the magic sensing will grow as you learn to use your magic again?”

“Crowley, not first year again!” Simon rolls his eyes. “I can’t imagine having to go through all that again...but I grant you, it’s possible.”

“Ok, that’s one point. What’s your next reason?” I ask.

“Well, my parentage argument is apparently bollocks now, since both my parents were mages.” he scowls at that, but soldiers on. “So I guess my last point is that I actually tried the simplest spell there is...the incantation to call the Sword of Mages. That barely requires any magic and I used to be able to do it in my sleep, practically...but I couldn’t, even with Baz helping me with his magic.” 

A shadow passes over his face. It looks like guilt. He’s thinking about the Mage again, about that final battle in the White Chapel. He always gets that look on his face when he thinks about it. I’ve noticed it every time, but I’ve not given it much thought, other than trying to think of a way to make my boyfriend feel better about what happened. But now, it sparks something in my brain. There’s something tugging at my memory about guilt...or shame...

Penny, Agatha and Shepard speculate inanely on reasons for Simon’s failure to call the sword, but my mind is working away at a connection I hadn’t seen before...Simon, the sword, and the Humdrum. Guilt...Simon’s face that night in the woods, when I called him the Humdrum the first time...his face when I told him, “you did this…” His face when he blew up at me at Bunce’s house, over visiting the numpties instead of turning himself in to the mage. The dragon wings and cartoon devil’s tail he grew to escape. I always wondered why he gave himself a cartoon devil’s tail...No...no, NOT dragon wings and a devil’s tail. I gasp aloud when the full picture takes shape in my mind.

All four of them turn to me in surprise and I realize that they’re all oblivious to the mental journey I’ve just been on. I’m bursting with excitement, the excitement I always feel over an aced test or a perfect essay. I’ve got it right, I’m certain of it. “Simon,” I begin and then pause. How can I convey this to him gently? He’s rightfully sensitive about everything to do with the Mage and the Humdrum. I decide that I need to work my way up to it. “What is the first thing they teach us about magic, on the first day in magic words class?”

He furrows his brow and shoots me a half-hearted glare at my lecturing tone, but decides to play along. “That words have power, in specific combinations. That they have power because of their frequent use by Normals….” I nod, and flap my hand at him encouraging him to go on, “and that using magic requires you to combine the words that make the spell with the intent behind the spell.” He looks at me for approval before catching himself, rolling his eyes and scowling again.

“The intent, Snow. Describe to me what intent means.” He flicks his eyes towards me with a frown, as if to say ‘ _really, Baz?_ ’ I nod again. “Please, Simon, humor me.”

He gives a put-upon sigh, and recites the 1st year mantra we all learned, “Your intent combines what you expect the spell to do with your belief that the spell can do it.”

“Yes, well done, Snow!” He quirks a grin at me before rolling his eyes again. I know, I know, this is basic stuff, but Simon was never proficient at magic, even first year magic. He’s reciting the words perfectly, but he’s not thinking about them. “The belief, Snow. Magic doesn’t work if you don’t believe you can do it!”

“So? I knew that. I know I had been able to do magic...when I tried to call the sword with you, I focused hard on believing. I honestly thought it would work, and it didn’t, so what are you implying?” He’s looking a little miffed, now, so I know I’d better get to the point. 

“ A lot of people don’t understand the nuances of this, Simon, but belief that something can happen is not enough, especially with a morally defined spell like the Sword’s incantation. You also have to believe you deserve for the spell to work. Most people are self-centered enough that they never even have to consider this, but Simon...you had just discovered that your magic was destroying the world of mages…” I pause because Simon’s face has crumpled. He tries turning away before I can see it, but I know him. I know this is hurting him. But he needs to understand.

I reach out and catch his nearest hand and, when he doesn’t try to pull it away, I clasp it between both of mine. I wait until he finally looks back up at me. His eyes are damp, but he nods at me to go on. “Snow...Simon, when you left my house the night the Humdrum took Hampshire’s magic, you grew wings again to escape. And again when you left Bunce’s house to turn yourself in to the mage. But not feathered wings like you’d called in the past.”

“Dragon wings,” he sniffles, “I must’ve been thinking about that dragon.”

“No, Simon. Not dragon wings, though we all thought that. At both my home, and Bunces’, you were confronted with possibly being the villain of the story, instead of the hero. You were probably already blaming yourself for all the havoc the Humdrum had wreaked for years. When you transformed both of those times, your guilt manifested itself in the wings and tail you gave yourself. Not dragon wings, Simon. Demon wings.”

**Simon**

Someone gasps, behind us, but I don’t turn to see if it was Penny or Agatha. Baz’s eyes burn into mine in his fervor to convince me. “Demon wings…” I repeat.

“Yes, Simon, yes! You were already punishing yourself for what the Humdrum had done in the world, never mind that you couldn’t have known or prevented it. You took the form of a demon because you were convinced that you were the bad guy, the source of the evil infecting our world. You were wrong of course, because you’re an idiot, and I’ll keep telling you that until you believe me.”

I run through all the events of that week in my head...it’s possible, I have to admit. The two occasions where I called these wings and this tail both still caused me to scream in my nightmares. I only have a few memories that are worse. But then I think I see a flaw in Baz’s logic.

“You may be right about the wings and tail, Baz. But not the magic. I was still able to call the sword then. I had it that night in the White Chapel.” Baz looks at me blankly. 

“Simon…” he says slowly, “I remember everything I saw that night. Every detail, from the pattern of blood on your face to the shattered glass on the floor from the broken windows. And I never saw your sword.” 

I frown, puzzled. He’s right, by the time Baz arrived, I don’t remember having the sword anymore. When had I lost it?

“Simon...can you describe what happened in the tower before I got there...if it’s not too much for you?” Baz ventures. My muscles are already tied in knots just thinking about that night, I want to run away, I want to fly...but I promised...and Baz looks so hopeful, I have to try.

“I...I heard screams...I flew in through the window...I think it was already broken, but I’m not sure, everything’s a blur. I might’ve broken it…” he squeezes my hand and I continue. “Ebb...Ebb was on the floor, bleeding from her chest. The Mage was leaning over her, singing a Queen song…” I close my eyes and fight for control over my emotions. Baz waits, in silence. Penny and Agatha and Shepard are so silent, I wonder if they’ve apparated away like in Harry Potter. (But Penny says those books aren’t realistic, so I know better).

Once I’ve mastered myself, I continue: “I know I still had the sword when I came through the window. I cried out. The Mage saw me, stopped singing. I begged him to save her. He told me it was too late, but he could still save me. He told me I wasn’t the chosen one, it was all a mistake. He wanted me to give him his magic, and I did, a little. And then the Humdrum showed up. I decided to fill the Humdrum with my magic...that’s everything you missed, I think. I don’t remember having my sword after talking to the Mage, but I suppose I must have put it away? It’s not quite like me to do that…” I gnaw at my lip, troubled by this. I have never put away my sword while there was still a potential threat...why would I have done it that night?

I look up at Baz, and, to my surprise, he looks absolutely electrified. “That’s IT, Snow!” he shouts and I wince at the volume. He immediately gentles, always so careful of my comfort. I really don’t deserve him. I squeeze my eyes shut tightly, this time catching that thought before it goes off to become part of the fog in my head. I promised Baz that I’d try to believe in his love. If he thinks I deserve love, I need to believe it too, otherwise I’ll just drive him away again. I whittle away at the thought until I think I’ve convinced myself (for now) that it isn’t true and then give Baz my attention. I’ve missed the first half of his sentence in my inner turmoil.

“...not the chosen one, that’s it, don’t you see it, Snow?” My confusion must be reflected on my face because he rolls his eyes, and repeats himself. “Simon, even if you hated yourself, even if you believed yourself to be evil, you still thought of yourself as the chosen one, meaning you had a right to the sword. It disappeared as soon as you accepted the Mage’s words, I’d bet my undead existence on it. He told you you weren’t the chosen one, and therefore, you no longer believed you had any right to the Sword of Mages. And belief becomes intent. Last year, when I tried to help you call the sword, you still believed you had no right to it, so of course, you couldn’t call it.”

My eyes widen. That makes an unpleasant amount of sense, but Baz is so happy about his own deductions that he may not realize what the implications are. “Baz...if that’s why I couldn’t call the sword, then I still won’t be able to call it.” He opens his mouth to argue; I’m sure he thinks I’m stewing in guilt again, but I’m not, I’m really not. I cut him off. “Baz, I’m doing my best to accept that nothing that happened that night was really my fault, but that doesn’t change the facts. I’m really not the chosen one. I still won’t be able to call the sword, even if I have magic.”

Baz looks hesitant, like he’s chewing on his words, but he doesn’t look like he agrees with me. He should, I know I’m right about this. I was never the chosen one, just a puppet prince set up to look like a chosen one by the machinations of my own father.

“Simon,” he begins gently and I frown at the coddling. I hate that they all feel the need to tiptoe around me, but that actually is my fault, so I let it go and listen. “Simon, you lost your belief in your right to the sword, and so you couldn’t call it, but even if I agreed with you that you weren’t the chosen one (which I don’t by the way), you never needed to be the chosen one to use the Sword of Mages.”

What? “What do y’ mean?” I say, and, from the way Baz’s shoulder’s tense, I can tell I’m not going to like what he says next.

“Simon, the Sword of Mages has belonged to every Mage’s heir for as long as our history books mention it. The only requirements to wield it are that you accept the conditions laid out in the cantrip, and that you are the designated heir of the Mage.” He closes his eyes as if to gather himself and I can feel a knot twist in my belly. “Simon, the Coven has never elected a new Mage, which means, for the purposes of the Sword’s magic, your father is still the Mage and you are still the Mage’s heir.”

I cry out, I think. Or at least, someone is shouting “Nonononono!” A red mist passes before my eyes and my wings flare, and begin to pump up and down. I’m about to run, I won’t be able to help myself...I can’t hear anymore of this, I can’t, I can’t…

“ _ **Hear me out!**_ ” rings through the dining hall, the words drenched with magic. It cuts through my panic, and my head swivels back to Baz. I realize, all of a sudden, that I’m hovering a meter off the floor and Baz and Penny are both shouting at me, pleading with me. I shake my head to try to dispel the wild thoughts, and slowly, deliberately let myself drop to the ground. My head sags to my chest.

“I can’t be...I won’t be his heir,” I whisper. Only Baz hears me, with his vampire senses.

Baz slowly reaches forward, and I fight myself not to flinch away. Finally, his hands come to rest on my shoulders. He searches my eyes, and then pulls me to his chest. I’m stiff in his arms for a moment, but it feels _so good_. I let myself go limp, let him hold me up.

“Nobody here is going to force you to do this, Simon. But, ignoring its connection to the Mage for a moment, the Sword is a powerful and wondrous object. I...I worry about you constantly, Simon. I worry that one of the many enemies from your former life will find you one day when I’m out of the house, and I’ll return to find you...gone.”

He sniffles. I’m stunned...I can’t believe it. My stoic, vampire boyfriend is sniffling into my shoulder...and crying too, if the damp patch on my shirt is anything to go by. “Simon,’ he continues, his voice muffled in my shirt, “knowing that you could call the Sword would make me feel so much more secure. Won’t you try? For me, if not for yourself?” He pulls back and stares at me solemnly through reddened eyes. He said he worries for me. That’s wrong, he shouldn’t suffer because I’m helpless. Against my better judgement, I give him a tight nod.

**Baz**

Simon gently pushes me away from him and stands straight again. His eyes are a bit wild, but his chin has firmed. He stares at me steadily and I suddenly realize what he’s waiting for…”Strike a match in your heart, Simon,” I whisper. He nods again, and closes his eyes, holding his hand stiffly at his side, like a wild west sheriff waiting to draw his revolver in a gunfight. He visibly gathers himself, his brow furrowed in concentration. He takes a deep breath, and speaks:

_" **In justice. In courage. In defence of the weak. In the face of the mighty. Through magic and wisdom and good."** _

His words start out weak and tremulous, but I can see his confidence steadily grow as he sinks into the familiarity of the poem...he even smiles a little. I stifle a sniffle...I’m growing wretchedly sentimental these days, but this glowing, beautiful boy looks just like the Simon I fell in love with so many years ago. Wait...glowing???

Before my eyes, Simon Snow is glowing like the sun he is, holding a familiar blade in one hand. He holds the sword aloft in wonder, and light from the mid-morning sun illuminates its tip, so that it looks like a beam of light is shooting from the weapon. Simon laughs, incredulously, and I laugh too, echoing his joy. Penny is babbling, Agatha is cheering and Shepard is applauding. 

Simon looks around at us all, and looks up at the sword, then down at his body. He seems startled to see the light shining from his skin. He closes his eyes tightly in concentration, and his light dims, and he’s simply Simon again. My Simon, who nearly lops my head off with his sword when he throws himself into my arms. Penny carefully extracts the sword from his trembling hand, as he burrows himself into my chest and sobs.

Over my armful of shuddering boy, I give Penny a significant look. She looks rebellious for a moment, but then sighs and concedes. Laying the Sword gently on the breakfast table, she shoos the others out of the room, and follows them, closing the door behind her.

Simon cries into my shirt for several minutes (Crowley, this is a day for the salt water washing of clothing!) Finally, his shudders cease. He clutches at me for another few moments before heaving a great sigh, and pulling slightly away to look at me. He looks tired, but uplifted, somehow. “I did it, Baz, I did it. Shepard was right...you were right. I do have magic...I have magic, Baz!”

I smile at him, fondly, and brush a curl off of his forehead. “That you do, love. That you do.” His gaze drifts away from me for a moment, and I can see he’s lost in thought. I think about the wand that Penny retrieved for him, but decide that there will be time enough for that later. I wait for him to speak. After a moment, he does.

“Baz...one of the reasons I kept telling myself that you couldn’t really be with me, not for long, was that I’m a Normal, and you love magic. You live and breathe it, and I knew you wouldn’t want to be burdened with a useless ex-mage your whole life…” When I move to express my indignation at this idea, he puts one finger up to my lips, and instantly I still. When did this boy...this man...come to have so much power over me?

Simon seems to lose focus for a moment, simply staring at his finger on my lips (or perhaps staring at my lips? Dare I hope?), but his eyes snap back up to mine when I squirm a tiny bit in anticipation. “I know, Baz, I know,” he continues, “I know that you don’t agree, but I think we’ve mentioned that my feelings haven’t exactly been rational? It’s hard to argue with your feelings, Baz.” I nod; that’s true enough. Merlin knows, I tried to argue myself out of loving this adorable oaf for years, with absolutely no luck.

“Anyhow...I think it will be easier for me to accept your love Baz, now that I know I can keep up with you. And I want to.” He’s staring at my lips again, and his hand shifts away to wind itself in my hair.

“You want to what, Snow?” I ask, hoarsely. I know what he’s getting at, but after this last year, I need to hear him say it. He smirks at me, the cheeky arsehole, and reaches his other hand up to thread through my hair also, shifting his body closer, so that we are pressed together from chest to knee.

He shifts infinitesimally closer. “I want...I want to accept your love, Baz…” he whispers, “and give you mine,” and then he moves that last fraction closer and his lips are meeting mine...but, there he stops, and waits. It takes me a dazed moment to realize that he’s waiting for me, giving me the choice to accept what he’s offering, or not. As if “not” was ever an option. I wrap my arms around him and sink into his lips like a thirsty man dives into a watering hole. His ridiculous tail wraps around my arm and I lose myself in him.

I feel weightless. His mouth moves softly against mine, and I tighten my arms around him and pull him closer. This. This is everything I’ve ever wanted. I feel...weightless. I feel like I’m floating...and then he pulls away, just a tiny bit, and my eyes drift open. And then they open even wider in shock, as I realize that the breeze I’m feeling is Simon’s wings beating. We’re hovering at least three meters above the ground. Simon looks sheepish, and all I can do is laugh.

I love him. He loves me. It’s a beginning.


End file.
